


You’ll Never Turn the Vinegar to Jam

by freddieofhearts



Category: Queen (Band)
Genre: Angst, Body Image, Falling In Love, M/M, Munich - Freeform, Serious Injuries
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-04
Updated: 2019-10-04
Packaged: 2020-11-23 20:37:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,689
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20895758
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/freddieofhearts/pseuds/freddieofhearts
Summary: A missing scene from my WIP, The Lucky and the Strong: Jim flies out to Munich.First of a handful of oneshot gifts. More on the way!





	You’ll Never Turn the Vinegar to Jam

**Author's Note:**

  * For [royaltyisshe64](https://archiveofourown.org/users/royaltyisshe64/gifts).

*

Paying off the taxi driver, he has to hold out a handful of the unfamiliar money. Trust the old man not to swindle him. Would he even take it from Jim’s open palm, if he knew?

These days he’s got better about not thinking like that—years past now, the real torment of seeing it, looking it dead in the eye, your own sinfulness, and squaring up to meet it, to take its hand in friendship—and in the end, to kiss it, that half-open, unyielding mouth. Years ago it was like a hidden brand. Not now, not these days, not loving Freddie: that’s all he’s thought about on the plane, crammed into his seat like a poor fattening-up calf. He’s gone on him, absolutely gone. 

Wear it, he thinks: wear it like a damn rosette. Be glad of it, you lucky bastard. 

He smiles at the old man, even though he can barely work his mouth round _Danke_, can hardly splutter it out so it sounds recognisably German. Bloody embarrassing. 

Phoebe looking pleased to see him, and distinctly green about the gills, is unsettling. When he opens the door, Jim has to exert effort not to shove past him—get to Freddie, find him and snatch him up. What’s happened to this poor old leg, then? Still attached? The joke a weak shield for all the worrying he’s been doing, through one airport and during the flight; through the second airport, then nearly all the way here in the taxi. 

Freddie. Where is he? It’s too early for bed. They aren’t out, and there’s no music playing. 

“I’ll put the kettle on,” Phoebe says, chummy as anything, like they’re mates now. He bustles off before Jim can find a way to mention politely that between the time of the evening and the turbulence—and the airsick toddler, and his own sour, sweating worry over Freddie—he’d really prefer a proper drink. Even some German beer, it doesn’t have to be Freddie’s fancy stuff. He can take that or leave it. 

“In the lounge,” Phoebe’s calling over the sound of the tap. “Just go through, he won’t mind, not with you.” 

All the same, Jim’s reluctant. He’s never been a shy man, but he feels timid now. Quite a statement, flying out here, wasn’t it? And now you’re going to walk in there and sit down with that tiny, beautiful rockstar and say—what? 

God, he’d like a drink and a cigarette. Not now, though, not if Freddie’s through there, perhaps even by himself? Not that he should get his hopes up about that: it’s best to stay in the realm of what’s likely to happen, such as Freddie not being occupied with anyone interesting, and pleased, maybe, to have Jim turn up instead. 

The door isn’t even all the way closed. Jim pushes it open, and there’s a little gasp. For one hideous moment he thinks, what if he’s caught Freddie in flagrante? Not that he’s ever expected chastity, Lord knows, but all the same – 

Only it isn’t. It isn’t anyone at all. Freddie’s on the sofa looking quite drawn, something about his mouth betraying that he’s in pain, and there’s no one else at all. That sound was all for Jim, all his, the sight of him, coming in, stepping over the threshold. 

“Evening,” Jim says, grinning despite himself. He’s tried on several occasions to be suave in front of Freddie, but it falls to pieces in no time. 

Freddie blushes, pink and flustered like a girl, but better, so much better. He’s biting his lip, and his eyelids are flickering—it could be an effort at seduction, but Jim knows it’s not, not now. 

“Oh,” he says, his voice high, almost sharp for a moment, “Jim—dear, I said—I told you, I’m so boring, all washed up like this.” He waves a hand vaguely towards his plastered leg. “It’s—grossly _Send In The Clowns_, darling, I’m sorry.” Jim can see he’s trying hard, ever so hard, to muster up a genuine smile; probably if he weren’t in pain, he’d be managing it, a great big showbiz beam. 

“Freddie,” Jim says firmly. He is finding the cast hard to look at. He’s only seen them on much younger people than Freddie, and they’ve always been much decorated: tatty with wear and tear, embellished with much amiable—at times, a little mocking—encouragement towards making a speedy recovery. 

Freddie’s is pristine. It looks like it was put on him an hour ago, as if it’s only just set—and of course that isn’t true, they’ve been home much longer than that. It doesn’t look as if Freddie’s even moved: it’s as if they put it on him right here, when Jim knows full well it was at the hospital. Some hospital or other—Holy Mary Mother of Jesus, he can’t think where any hospitals are in this place. 

It dwarfs his skinny leg and Jim finds himself, idiotically, second guessing the whole thing: surely he can’t need all that? Surely it’s too big? He’s never seen such a big bloody cast. How is Freddie even going to move from room to room with that thing on? Surely he can’t stand up? Forget sex, for fuck’s sake, how does he even go to the toilet? It’s Freddie’s—and, God, probably Phoebe’s—business, not his, but how can he stop worrying, when the injury looks like it does; he’d be mad not to worry. He would. Mad.

“Look,” he says, speaking fast, before he panics or something. “We don’t have to do it.” 

He’d wanted to say something gentle, something romantic—but these limp, useless words are all he can find. It sounds like a concession, when he means it to be a reassurance. 

Freddie wails, “You’ll go home again,” and breaks off. He sounds quite different from a moment ago, when he was so teasing, so in charge of things despite his flushed cheeks. He’s looking out into the darkness outside the window now, as if he can see something beyond the enclosing glass. He might be near tears, it can be hard to tell. 

A cold room, as it should not be. Well-lit without being welcoming, not like Freddie’s place in London. 

Jim says, “Will it hurt more if I move you?”

Freddie moves his head, looks up at him, and yes—his lovely eyes are drenched, and he’s blinking fast, trying to find an excuse, or to banish the emotion completely. 

Jim says, “Will it, love—?”

“I’m sure it won’t.” 

No hesitation. 

Jim is far less sure, but he lifts Freddie, lifts him easily; it’s probably easier than it should be even with someone so slightly built—it’s not that he doesn’t eat, they’ve sat at dinner together quite a few times now. But he fiddles more than he eats, his hands are never still. 

“Aren’t you small,” he says, taking the space on the sofa that was Freddie’s, and settling Freddie’s narrow bottom into his own lap, sideways, making sure the poor hurt leg isn’t moved amiss, is still straight and still along the cushions. 

“Not really,” Freddie says. He sounds more sure of himself than he has up until now. “Not any more. I mean, I used to be.” He laughs a little. It’s a bright ringing sound. 

“Silly,” Jim begins, and he wants to say more, but his fingers are at the nape of Freddie’s neck. Jesus Christ, the hair there is soft. The tips of his own fingers don’t seem delicate enough to move this stuff without hurting it, although he cuts hair every day. 

“Oh, it’s just our fate, isn’t it, dear?” Freddie says lightly. “To get old and ugly and fat! I’ve resigned myself, it doesn’t scare _me._” 

You little liar, Jim thinks. He kisses the top of Freddie’s head.

“No need for it to scare you, is there? You’re a luminary—”

“Don’t,” Freddie says. His voice has changed. “If you’re alone, you see—”

“Oh, Freddie!” Jim half exclaims, the words flying out of him. As if the fright of the telephone call hasn’t really left him: he’s still jumpy, alarmed, wondering what further bad news is about to pop up out of nowhere. 

“You aren’t alone,” he says, pressing Freddie to him, “Not unless you want—you silly thing, don’t you understand, I love you? I love you—”

Freddie says nothing. He breathes out in a rush, and settles his head on Jim’s chest, as if the embrace is still, by some confusing betrayal of physics, too distant. 

The moment stretches to a minute, and it’s well on the way to two before he pulls back a little, looks up, and startles Jim with his blazing eyes. 

Is that terror or joy? 

Impossible to say. 

It could be almost anything, and Jim feels his whole throat tightening and drying. He doesn’t know if it’s pity, perhaps even a species of fear, but he’s on edge. Freddie is blushing more now, not the enchanting pink, but scarlet from neck to brow, and Jim nearly feels sorry for him, with his broken leg and his flushed face and his international fame—but not quite. 

“Is it a joke,” Freddie whispers, sounding at first only mysterious. And then he pulls himself together and demands, imperious as a czarevitch, “Do you—do you really, if it’s only a game you must tell me, or it—it isn’t fair—” 

His everyday stammer, which is mild, has worsened. The words are fractured, splitting themselves and redoubling, almost losing their meaning. 

Jim cries, “No, God, of course it’s not a joke, it’s real—why would I—” 

Freddie’s looking radiant, but astounded. There’s far too much disbelief in his expression for Jim’s liking, and he’s just about to say so when Phoebe comes quietly in, carrying a delicate tea tray, and sets it down with a clack. 

Freddie twists in his lap—it’s as if he has no spine at all, Jim thinks, not for the first time—and turns his watery beam on the newcomer. 

“Phoebe—oh, Phoebe, Jim’s here, and he says he _loves_ me!”

*

**Author's Note:**

> The leg thing is real; the Jim stuff is fictional. I’m very open to requests for Freddie-centric stuff, just hit me up on Tumblr (@freddieofhearts).


End file.
